


icarus (and the sun)

by seijuro



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seijuro/pseuds/seijuro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He talked about parallel universes,” Akashi says. “Hundreds—no, <em>thousands</em> of them. Like ours, but entirely different.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	icarus (and the sun)

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: death/implied suicide/minor violence
> 
> tumblr: seijuurouakashi  
> twitter: akanijis
> 
> sweats... yeah, i wrote this. the original title was "feathers and wax" but that was mostly to hide the fact that i wrote this bc i don't really like it. 
> 
> i tried a different style and this was mostly a writing exercise and an excuse to get out my plot bunnies that wouldnt form individual drabbles!

**1.**

Akashi is sixteen and too young and too pretty to be burnt at stake.

Nijimura thinks he’s never seen anyone so small—there’s something lacking in the dark of Akashi’s eyes that the fire either gives or takes, and the lacework of veins beneath skin and bone are like a spider’s web. Nijimura, for what it’s worth, remembers that he  _despises_ spiders.  Not a single part of him doubts that Akashi is innocent, but the people are angry and the king is desperate, and he’s pretty sure the last four people who were eaten alive by flame were innocent, too. The numbers don’t change a thing, anyway. Nijimura isn’t pessimistic, but he isn’t stupid, either: Akashi isn’t the first to die, and Nijimura’s certain he won’t be the last.

Akashi meets his eyes when the red begins to crawl its way up, and between smoke and sky, he burns as if he’s made of star instead of skin.

*****

**2.**

Nijimura’s doing homework and watching TV when it happens. That in and of itself is  _just_ a little funny because Nijimura  _never_ watches TV and is even less likely to listen to what his parents have to say. For perhaps the first time, Nijimura does both.

“What a shame,” says his mother, shaking her head. From the corner of his eye, Nijimura sees her looking to his father for approval. (He gives it to her, either way.) “He was so young! A few years younger than Shuuzou, wasn’t he?”

His father’s busy with buttoning his collar up to his ears, but after reaching for a coffee mug, he finds it in him to answer. “Indeed. Who’s going to take care of the company, now? His poor father.”

They’re creating small talk with a boy’s death, and it’s so  _disgusting_ it makes him want to laugh. They don’t care if some rich boy countries away is dead, but they’d rather fill the quiet with empty words than sit in it.

“Poor dear,” his mother says, eyes glasslike. She fumbles for a few minutes before managing to pick up her own mug. Nijimura would much rather listen to their silence than to their pity, but that isn’t his choice to make.

He looks to the TV. There’s a picture of the Poor Boy on screen next to a mass of metal and flame (Nijimura and the news reporter identify it as a plane). The suit the boy’s wearing looks like it costs more than Nijimura’s entire house and everything in it, and his sharp cheekbones give him an air of elegance. (It’s either the cheekbones, or the suit.) He’s got a smile, too, and it’s so damn pretty it could have only been practiced.

Nijimura turns the TV off, and does his homework with annoyance and a hint of deja vu.

*****

**3.5**

It’s a cold morning, Decemberish and silent. There’s nothing to say and less to give, but Nijimura tries anyway. Akashi would have been seventeen in three days.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Nijimura drops the flowers by Akashi’s grave. They’re blood-red roses ( _were,_ Nijimura corrects himself), but they’re a little old and it makes their colours dark. Akashi would have hated them.

“You know,” Nijimura says, counting down, “you never told anyone  _why._ ”

Akashi doesn’t answer. Nijmura doesn’t expect him to.

*****

**4.**

Akashi is a king, and Nijimura his general, and his kingdom bleeds red. The soldiers are tired of marching (it’s been years, it’s been lives, it’s been deaths), and even more tired of their king. There are mutinous talks going around—Nijimura neither participates or tells Akashi of them. Akashi is king, and his people want his head as much as they want the crown on it. Nijimura is certain Akashi knows, anyway.

They’re tending horses when Nijimura asks, “When are you planning to go back?”

Akashi rubs his horses neck and offers no answer. “Never,” he says. “Not until we reach the edges of our maps.”

Nijimura licks his dry lips. Akashi will die first. “What happens when we do?”

“Then,” Akashi says, pulling himself onto his horse, “we keep going.”

It sounds like a suicide mission.

*****

It is.

*****

Akashi only asks him once they’re in the tent reserved for kings and generals and  _plans._ “Why do you follow me?”

“It’s my job.”

Akashi stares before walking right up to him. The armour makes him look much older than he actually is, but Nijimura supposes that’s partially the crown’s fault, too. He wonders what it would be like to unravel Akashi thread by thread, armour by skin by bone. He wonders what he would find at Akashi’s core, wonders what it has to give.

“That isn’t what I meant,” Akashi says, putting a hand at the neckline of his armour.

Nijimura licks his cracked lips again. “Because you’re my king.”

Akashi looks like he wants to say he’s not anybody’s any _thing_ , but it’s gone as quickly as it comes. “I’m glad you know where we stand,” says Akashi, satisfied.

*****

The kingdom bleeds and bleeds and  _bleeds_ , and neither Akashi nor Nijimura is interested in patching up wounds.

“We attack tomorrow night,” Akashi tells him, gaze dark. His birthright put him on the throne, but his military genius keeps him there. A part of Nijimura asks if Akashi is attacking  _just because he can,_ but the rest of him is sure Akashi knows better than that. Akashi should. “Have the archers flank them while we strike from the front.”

Akashi isn’t particularly fond or good at planning frontal attacks, Nijimura knows. “As the king wishes.”

It is Akashi’s kingdom, and it’s certainly none of Nijimura’s business if Akashi wants to see it burn. “Excellent. Prepare the men.”

It’s also none of his business if Akashi wants to burn with it. “As you wish,” Nijimura says again, but Akashi is already gone.

*****

**5.**

There’s a boy sitting at the bleachers. Nijimura doesn’t  _usually_ pay watchers any attention, but there’s something about the boy that makes Nijimura curious. He’s watching so intently it unnerves Nijimura for a few minutes.

He’s not able to stand it for a minute longer. Wiping his face with the front of his shirt, Nijimura approaches the boy and says, “What’s up?”

The boy regards him for a long moment before folding his hands in his lap. Nijimura catches a glimpse of a sketchbook. “Hello.”

It’s then that Nijimura names the expression.  _Wistful._ The uniform the boy wears is that of a younger class, so it’s no wonder Nijimura has never seen him before.

“Do you want to play?” Nijimura asks before he can stop himself. Holding out the basketball, he adds, “You were just watching intently, so…”

“Oh, no thank you,” says the boy.

Nijimura frowns. “You sure? You can still join the team, you know. Even if you don’t know how to play.”

The boy smiles, then. “It’s not that. My father won’t let me.”

 _Oh._ “You can still watch,” Nijimura offers. “Or if you just want to practice with me without actually being on the team, we can do that too.”

The boy folds his sketchbook shut and stands up, still smiling. “That would be great.”

Nijimura never sees him again.

*****

**6.**

His father makes the mistake of calling, and Nijimura makes the mistake of picking up. “Hello?” he says into the phone, one hand keeping the stupid thing to his ear and the other cradling a paintbrush.

“Come home,” his father says.

Nijimura stills. “I can’t.”

There’s a break, a static pause. “Why not? Don’t you miss home?”

“Of course,” Nijmura says after a beat. “I’ll go back, eventually.”

His father has a habit of saying things only when he’s certain he’ll get something out of it. It’s an ugly habit, but Nijimura can’t say he hasn’t picked it up as well. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have exploded at you. If you wanted to paint, then…”

Nijimura laughs harshly. “I guess, but that doesn’t change anything now.”

His father hesitates. “I guess not.”

Nijimura isn’t the first to hang up.

*****

“Are you submitting it to the art gallery?” Himuro asks, stepping over splotches of paint on the canvas floor. “It’s nice.”

Nijimura nods, biting his lip. “They invited me to make an appearance, actually.”

Himuro raises an eyebrow, sitting next to Nijimura. The room is small enough for the paint to smell like gasoline. “Seriously? Why?”

“I dunno?” Nijimura plays with the fraying ends of his shirt. He thinks about the man who’d looked at his painting and asked him to display his work. Vaguely, Nijimura remembers him as one of the coordinators, or something fancy like that. “Doesn’t matter, though.”

Himuro gazes at him, opens his mouth, and closes it. “It really is nice, though. I’m glad to see your work paid off.”

“Me too.” Nijimura looks at it almost fondly. “It took me hours.”

"Who is it?” Himuro asks, eyeing the painting.

It’s an armour-clad boy sitting atop a horse. The way he holds his head high implies status, and the blade in his hand confirms it. The cape behind him is a red that matches his hair and the rising flames behind him.

There’s a headache reaching, somewhere, when Nijimura says, “I don’t know.”

He makes a mental note to do something about that headache later.

*****

  **7.**

He picks up on the first ring. Nijimura, almost amusedly, realizes this is the first time in a while.

“Hello?” Akashi says. Nijimura can pinpoint the exact moment his tone brightens. “Oh, Nijimura!”

“Hey,” Nijimura says, oceans and hours away. His roommate is practicing guitar in the background, and Nijimura finds the urge to thank some god out there that he’s not bad. “Timezones suck.”

He can practically feel Akashi agreeing. “That’s putting it lightly.” There’s someone calling him, somewhere, but Akashi doesn’t seem to care. “How is California?”

It’s small talk, and Akashi’s good at it. “It’s okay,” Nijimura says, telling him the truth. “It’s honestly not the same, but I’ll get used to it.”

“Of course,” Akashi says, polite. It’s small talk, and Nijimura despises it. “Your father? How is he doing?”

The fake light from his desk lamp is starting to give him a headache, and a mess of scribbled notes isn’t much help, either. “His funeral is in three days.”

Akashi is quiet before saying, “I’m sorry.” He sounds as if he’s remembering something unwanted, but Nijimura doesn’t press, deciding it’s better left for another sleepless night.

“I know,” Nijimura says.

“How are you holding up?” Akashi asks without missing a beat. “Your family?”

Nijimura has to think for a moment. “They’re okay,” he tells Akashi, finally deciding on an answer. “It’s been expected for a while.”

“I suppose. That doesn’t make things any easier, though.”

Nijimura hardly has the energy to laugh. “Of course not.”  _It would have been nice,_ he thinks,  _to be a child again._ Childhood was easy; childhood was living forever without funeral bills and stale hospitals.

“If you need anything, you can tell me,” Akashi says after a few empty moments.

He didn’t  _see_ his father die, and Nijimura finds himself wondering what it’s like. The only things he can think of are candle and flame. “Yeah.”

*****

Nijimura does give him a call after the funeral’s done and he doesn’t have to  _think_ anymore. “Fate,” he says. “Do you believe in it?”

Akashi struggles to remain polite. “Of course not. It’s much more reassuring to think you have your life in your own hands.”

“Is it?” It’s raining again. It rained the day of the funeral.

Akashi changes the subject. “Shintarou told me something odd the other day.”

Nijimura can’t stop himself from smiling. “Yeah? What’d he say this time?”

“He talked about parallel universes,” Akashi says. “Hundreds—no,  _thousands_  of them. Like ours, but entirely different.” He sounds almost excited. Nijimura is smitten.

“You like this idea?”

“It’s a lot to think about.”

"It’s limitless,” Nijimura says, and realizes how much that scares him. Somewhere, somehow, there’s a universe where they aren’t separated by oceans and two years of discontinuity; there’s a universe where they aren’t talking across telephone lines like they’re tightropes; there’s  _someplace_ where Nijimura’s dad is alive and—

—he remembers to exhale.  _Yeah,_ Nijimura thinks.

“Do you believe him?” Akashi asks. The signal sends static between them, and Nijimura’s head has never hurt more.

He sees no point in lying. “No.”

*****

**3.**

Akashi is talented. Nijimura knows this, as does anyone who’s ever taught him  _anything._ He’s listened to many people play before and Christ, Nijimura himself has played for as long as he can walk, but Akashi does something different with the instrument. Nijimura’s a piano player, not a writer, but he’s certain no words can describe how Akashi makes the music breathe. It’s kind of funny, actually, because when the music can breathe, he can’t.

Akashi is talented, and he knows it. “I want to play in the orchestra hall,” he tells Nijimura one day. There’s light from the open window, and the gold it casts behind Akashi’s back makes him look as if he has wings.

Akashi can do it; Akashi  _will_ do it—and that’s what scares Nijmura the most. He’s equally afraid of The Nothing and The Fear itself.  

“I don’t think you’re ready,” Nijimura says.

The music stops and Akashi frowns. “They already called me for an audition.”

“Yes,” Nijimura says, “but it’s different. It just is.”

“If you can’t even explain it, how am I supposed to believe you?” Akashi looks at him from beneath his bangs.

“There are a lot of things we can’t explain that everyone believes,” Nijimura tells him. “Why did you stop playing?”

“Not me,” Akashi says, continuing anyway. “I’ll just be playing. What’s so wrong with that?”

Akashi is young; Akashi is ambitious; Akashi is  _bright,_ and Nijimura doesn’t want to see him burn. “Give it another two years,” says Nijimura. “Wait till you graduate high school.”

Akashi’s mouth pulls into a deeper frown. “What’s the difference?”

( _Icarus,_ Nijimura thinks.)

Nijimura realizes Akashi has a habit of asking questions even though he’s already made a decision. “I already told you,” he says, praying Akashi listens to him for once. “It’s just  _different._ ”

Akashi doesn’t.

*****

**8.**

There’s a boy sitting in the bleachers. Nijimura doesn’t  _usually_ pay watchers any attention, but he’s with his friend—a tall, awkward looking boy who’s constantly pushing his glasses up. Nijimura supposes that doesn’t matter with the way they’re both gazing at the basketball nets. He’s impressed.

“You interested in playing?” Nijimura asks, looking at his watch. Tryouts are in half an hour, and if they’re half as enthusiastic as they look, it makes sense that they would have showed up early. “We could use some new blood.” He does his best to smile.

The tall boy smiles back, face turning red with the effort it takes.

The boy sitting next to him straightens his back and returns the smile with ease. Nijimura knows how to spot the practiced ones. The windows allow light, but it’s not too bad, he supposes. The gym is usually too dark, anyway. Nijimura, for the first time in what seems to be forever, thinks it’ll be alright. “Yes. We’re here for the tryouts. Do you play for the first string?”

Nijimura says, “I’m small forward,” before remembering to backtrack. “Well, actually, I’m Nijimura Shuuzou, but….”

“Akashi Seijuurou,” The boy (Akashi, Akashi,  _Akashi_ ) stands up. “I look forward to playing alongside you.”

“Likewise,” Nijimura says, and it’s a promise.


End file.
